Cold
by Maglor Makalaure
Summary: From the shadows, Elrond watches Maglor.


**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Silmarillion_.**

* * *

**Cold**

**Shadow**

From the corners of rooms, draped in shadows, Elrond watches him. He does this sometimes, out of sheer spite, just so he can fill his little, bitter heart with penetrating darkness, for no amount of hate is enough for this _thing_ that he refuses to call an Elf.

Small fingers, still plump in childhood, clutch nervously against a gold-plated table leg as he gazes at the man at his dressing table, getting ready for supper. Elrond's eyes don't blink as Maglor deftly weaves his tresses into a long, tight plait, and don't waver as he sets a silver circlet upon his head and stares grimly at his reflection in the ornate oval mirror. No, Maglor's mouth is not set into a frown, but Elrond has observed him enough times to recognise most of the little changes in the Noldo's expression, and understand what they mean.

If Maglor is aware of Elrond, he never says so; he merely goes about his work, keeping his eyes lowered, for which Elrond is silently grateful. Now, however, Maglor rises from his seat, his fine silk mantle draping to his calves, and flits his gaze towards the Half-elf's general direction. It only lasts a moment, but Elrond shrinks into the dimness and hunches his shoulders, afraid that the tall Noldo with fiery eyes will kneel down and drag him from his hiding place with large, rough hands. But he doesn't, and exits the room quietly, leaving the gnarled wooden door ajar.

This is the only time Elrond is nearly caught, and the cool, indifferent gleam in Maglor's eyes infuriates him no end.

* * *

**Rain**

The next time Elrond watches him, he is not hiding but at his window sill, indiscreetly contemplating the lone figure that stands in the misty downpour on the battlements of Amon Ereb. Elros shifts on his feet behind him, impatient; he wants to know why Elrond is staring at their captor. Elrond doesn't give him an answer; Elros is annoying him. He always annoys him when it comes to Maglor. Elros is too forgiving, too charitable, too willing to cling to the Noldo's leg in hopeful affection; he is blinded by Maglor's soft smiles and his occasional offers of comfort in his songs or in his arms.

Elros wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Isn't he getting cold?" he says meekly. "I'm feeling cold even with the windows shut."

"He's technically a full Elf," Elrond mutters nonchalantly. "He doesn't feel the cold too keenly." He gets a vague and slightly odd feeling as he says this, as if he is speaking of an alien species.

But Maglor doesn't look like he cannot feel the cold; rather he seems as if he wants to welcome its merciless bite. He stands with his feet apart, cloak billowing in the wind, his head tilted up towards the grey, pregnant clouds. His eyes are closed and his lips pursed, and if Elrond has to guess, he would say there is a crease between the man's brows.

All of a sudden Maglor's eyes open, and he lifts his open-palmed hands towards the heavens, as if begging or in prayer. His mouth moves, and he looks like he is singing. After a moment his arms fold onto his chest, and he drops his head, his rain-drenched hair falling to cover his pale face.

And Elrond twists his lips in distaste and jumps off the sill, yanking the curtains shut.

* * *

**Age**

Maglor is playing the harp; a rarity. Elrond has heard him play only a handful of times, and before this has never stopped to listen carefully. The musician sits cross-legged on the floor, like a child, and rests his head against the wall. His hands stray across the strings, slowly, and the music that is coaxed out with his nimble fingers is...well, Elrond has nothing to say about it, save that it wants to make him weep for grief and beauty.

Elrond is, for a time, begrudgingly lost in the melody, and is luckily yanked out of his thoughts by a door slamming open. Maedhros has stormed into his brother's chamber, his eyes hard as flint and his hair unbound and tangled; he had probably been resting. Maglor does not stop playing.

Maedhros just glares darkly at the younger man (though neither of them can really be called young), and then strides forward and grips Maglor's shoulder in an iron fist. Elrond watches, trembling, as Maglor stays his hands and calmly raises his head, regarding his brother with disinterest.

"Cease that music," Maedhros spits, "before I slap you."

Elrond, now truly terrified of what may befall, chews his lip till he nearly draws crimson, and almost cries out in protest when Maglor replies, "I will not." As much as Elrond despises both Noldor, he has no desire to see bloodshed; he's already beheld more of it than is healthy for a young boy. He flinches back when Maedhros raises his only hand, and waits for the sickening sound of the blow that is to follow.

But it does not come. Maedhros drops his hand back on Maglor's shoulder and looks at him imploringly. "Brother..." Maglor is unmoved, though he sets his lyre patiently on his lap, as if waiting for Maedhros to finish. The elder's voice, when he speaks, is thick with emotion and cracked: "Please...I cannot bear it."

"You would forget our mother's songs?" Maglor murmurs softly, pushing back the other's loose, wine-coloured hair with a slender hand bereft of jewels. "Maitimo."

Elrond swears he's never seen them look so young.

* * *

**Familiarity**

Elrond is confused. He is watching Maglor at an arm's length, looking directly into his eyes, searching for some kind of answer, some kind of _truth_. Maglor winces slightly, eyes shifting to the raw, ugly laceration above his left elbow, and Elrond can only think _itwasmeantformeitwasmeantfor me,damnyou! _The Orc attack had been sudden and unexpected, and had left two soldiers dead. A hunting trip to the forest of Taur-Im-Duinath had taken a turn for the worse, and Maedhros looks like he wishes he had listened to Maglor when the latter requested that the Half-elves be left at the fortress for safety.

Elrond's eyes drop to the black arrow that lies on the ground beside them. Maglor had pulled it out of his arm, inspected it, and muttered, "No poison. Lucky." He doesn't look so lucky with a gored limb and a broken ankle, sitting pitifully on the grass as if he is totally helpless.

Maglor's gaze his almost as confused as his own, somehow. The Noldo is looking at him apprehensively, his sharp features contorted in puzzlement. Elrond barely comprehends his brother falling to his knees by his side and wailing like a lost puppy, or Maedhros giving curt orders to the rest of the company.

It is only when Maglor's eyes flit downwards that Elrond does the same and draws a sharp breath, for he realises that his hand is clutching Maglor's like a vice, as if he does not want to let go. This, of course, makes Elrond quickly withdraw his fingers and sets defiance in his face. He tries to muster all his anger, all his frustration, and attempts to push Maglor hard in the chest, never mind his wounds, but the man easily stops his fist in a firm but gentle grip. "Enough, Elrond," he says quietly, calmly. "Enough."

And Elrond bends over and weeps shamelessly because the Noldo before him reminds him so much of his father.


End file.
